


The RarePair Initiative

by L_Greene



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Anal Sex, Dirty Talk, Multi, many ships, triggering language
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-26
Updated: 2014-02-25
Packaged: 2018-01-13 19:57:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1238932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/L_Greene/pseuds/L_Greene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of oneshots, related and unrelated, humanstuck and not, of rare ships (not just pairs) in the fandom. Each ship is by request, so if there's something you want to see, drop me a line either here or on my Tumblr! E for language and sexual content. I will update ships and characters as they occur.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The RarePair Initiative

**Author's Note:**

> This is some dystopian future where everything's fucked up. Not all of these oneshots will be from a second-person perspective, though!

_**Dirk/Eridan: Self-Defense** _

You stay in the shadows, gripping the hilt of your katana tightly. You can't see who's approaching, but you can hear them, their thick-soled boots deadening their footsteps somewhat, but not enough to hide the sound from your trained ears. It never hurts to be too careful. Not anymore.

The footsteps slow with a faint but definite sound of something rustling, and then a moment later, a safety clicking off. _They have a gun_ , you realize. An old adage you heard once about bringing a knife to a gun fight comes to mind, and you almost laugh. You wonder what the rules on bringing a katana to a gun fight are.

You'll have to get the upper hand in a hurry if you're going to survive this. Fortunately, you have the element of—

"Drop the sword," comes a voice to your right, high-pitched and nasally but decidedly male.

Surprise.

You turn slowly, suddenly hyperaware of the firearm pointed straight at your head. It appears to be a rifle—an M16, if your memory is correct—and fairly heavy, you know from personal experience, but the kid holding it (and he _is_ a kid, maybe three or four years at most younger than your twenty years old) has it level and steady, supported with only one hand. His left hand, you notice.

"Drop it," the kid repeats.

"How about I just..." You slowly lower your katana and make to slide it into its sheath. "And you maybe not point that thing at me?"

Behind the thick glasses, the kid's eyes narrow. "Glasses off, too," he says.

Well. He clearly knows he's in the position of authority here. Not that you blame him—your sunglasses throw people off. Mostly because they're pointy and completely hide where you're looking. But you were them because, no matter how distinctive they are, you draw far more looks without them than with them.

You raise a hand and pull off your sunglasses. "Better?"

The kid takes a moment to really gawk at your eyes—they're unnatural and orange, something you prefer to keep hidden—but now that your shades are off, you're surprised to see that this kid's eyes are actually violet, not blue, like you'd originally thought. You're both a little weird, it seems.

Finally, the kid raises the rifle and holsters it behind his back, flicking the safety back on. The leather straps cross his chest with a thick black X—actually, everything he wears seems to be black and made of leather. Then again, it's the same with you. Except for your undershirt (which is cotton, but it's hidden by your leather jacket) and your bandana (also cotton, as well as tied right below your eyes, securely across the bridge of your nose), you're in leather from head to toe.

Except the kid has a black knitted beanie over his hair and a scarf in two different shades of blue tied over his face. That's a little odd, too.

"There," you say. "Now we can have a conversation like mature adults."

He eyes you suspiciously. He's your height, which you don't like, but he can't control that. Actually, you realize he's probably a little shorter than you—his boots give him a little extra height.

"Okay. Maybe not mature. And maybe not adults. But still." You extend your right hand, your left hand twitching for the dagger at your hip, but you keep your body angled so he can't see the movement. "I'm Dirk, and I don't wanna kill you unless I gotta."

"Eridan," he says finally, shaking your hand.. "An' I genuinely couldn't give a shit if I had to kill you."

"At least you're honest," you say. "You showing any weird... signs?"

"If I was, you think I'd tell you?"

"Probably not." You pull out your dagger and inch up the sleeve of your jacket. "I'll show you mine if you show me yours."

He twists the scarf away from his face. His nose is thin and pointed, turned up at the end, and his lips are thin as well but not unpleasantly so. He almost looks like a prince—something you've heard about yourself, too. "Fine."

You make a neat slice into your forearm—not too badly, just enough to draw blood. Bright red, non-mutated blood. A few drops slip down and hit the pavement, and Eridan nods. You hand him the knife hilt-first, he tugs up his sleeve, and does the same thing.

Red. Human red. He hands back your knife with a self-satisfied smirk, pushing down his sleeve.

"Okay. We've established that neither of us are infected or whatever. So now maybe we can help each other out."

"Who says I need help?" Eridan snaps, crossing his arms over his chest.

"You're looking for something. Or some _one_ , I'm guessing. So am I. Maybe you've see him—about five-nine, blond hair like mine, freaky red eyes, goes by Dave. He's my brother."

A muscle in his jaw twitches. "Nope, sorry." You don't think he's sorry at all. He seems like an asshole, actually.

"What about a kid named Jake? Five-five, dark hair, green eyes, square glasses. Probably toting a couple of nine-mils," you say, referring to Jake's preferred handguns.

Eridan shakes his head.

"Fine. Who're you looking for?"

"A couple a' people," he says uneasily. "Cronus, six-one, looks a lot like me but without glasses. Uses a lot a' irritating fifties slang."

You crack a smile. "Haven't seen him."

"Feferi, five-seven, dark hair, brown eyes, fuchsia-glasses. Probably has an ax or a trident."

"A fucking _trident_?"

He shrugs. "Her dad's a fisherman."

"Sorry, haven't seen her, either."

He swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing. You suddenly realize there's a pleasant curve to his neck. You wouldn't mind biting it, actually...

You mentally shake yourself. You told Jake you'd find him, after all, and you promised yourself you'd stay faithful to him. Not that he would literally ever find out about this... _He's probably under eighteen_ , you remind yourself as an added deterrent. But, really, everything's all fucked up—would anyone really give a shit if a nineteen-year-old fucked a seventeen-year-old? Probably not.

"Sollux, five-eleven, honey-blond hair, glasses... one eye's brown, one's blue. Likes to chuck around throwing stars."

"Throwing stars? Definitely haven't seen him."

Eridan gives an exasperated sigh. "Okay, we haven't seen anyone either a' us is lookin' for." He tugs up his scarf. "So I guess this is where we part ways."

"We don't have to," you say automatically, and then immediately wonder if you're an idiot. Eridan isn't going to want to team up with you for _any_ reason—but you've already said it, so it's too late to take it back now.

"What do you mean?"

"Well... are you any good with that thing, or is it just for show?"

He straightens up, his eyes narrowing and a sneer crossing his face. You've never actually met someone who _sneered_ before. He's got pride issues, you see. "Let's just say that Marine Corps snipers ain't got shit on me. I know for a _fact_." He points at your katana. "Are you any good with _that_ thing?"

"I could lop your head off in under five seconds, if that's what you mean."

"You'd have a bullet between your eyes if you tried."

"You'd have to draw your rifle first, and I could lop your arm off in less than a second."

"Wanna bet?" he challenges, and you already see where this is going: the exact same place you started, with your weapons pointed at each other.

"Let's not and say we did." You tug down your bandana. "Look, my point is, we're both fairly dangerous."

He snorts as if to say, "I'm a lot more than _fairly_ dangerous."

"So why don't we stick together for awhile? Watch each other's backs?"

Eridan seems to size you up for a few seconds. "How do I know you're not gonna shove that katana in my back when I'm sleepin'?"

You shrug. "How do I know you're not gonna shoot me in the head when _I'm_ sleeping? I don't. It's called trust."

He looks decidedly mistrustful, but after a few more moments, he nods. "Alright. Fine, _Dirk_. I'll trust you."

* * *

That was three months ago, and you're still following each other around. That certainly wasn't what you expected—you thought a week, tops, and then one of you would be gone, but that didn't happen. Neither of you found anything better, and despite not trusting each other much, you work well together.

In those three months, you've learned a lot about Eridan Ampora. For one, underneath that black beanie, his hair is dyed black (it's brown naturally—his roots have grown in) with a blond streak bleached into the bangs. He stutters on his Vs and Ws when he gets nervous—which is seldom, but it happens. He's ambidextrous but prefers his left hand. His brother Cronus and he both shared a geeky wizard-loving phase (that secretly neither of them grew out of, despite Cronus's outer shift in interests). His family is— _was—_ filthy rich, although since the Chasm, he's had to fend for himself while practically thriving. His father taught him and Cronus both how to shoot, and shoot well. He never knew his mother. Most importantly, he's eighteen (though he looks younger), which is somewhat of a relief when you've got him bent over the table in your now-shared hideout, fucking his brains out. Like right now.

"Oh, God, oh, God, oh, _God_!" he gasps. "Fuck, Dirk, fuck me harder!"

You're only too happy to oblige, tightening your grip on him, one hand on his shoulder and the other on his hip, and driving into him harder. "Greedy little bitch," you hiss in his ear.

He loves it, though. He whines, his left hand coming off the edge of the table to grab onto his cock, while his still-clothed leg wraps around yours. None of your encounters are all that "intimate"—it's usually like this, bent over a table or against a wall or on your hands and knees (but never, ever face-to-face) with your pants pulled down to mid-thigh or knees and shirts riding up, but still mostly clothed. There's a few reasons for that—it's faster to just get right to it (neither of you are much for foreplay, and you're both young, so it doesn't take much to get either of you turned on anyway), if anyone tries to take advantage of the time and attack you, it's easier to just pull up your pants, belt them, and grab your weapons, and it reminds you both that this is temporary. You don't have sex like lovers do—you fuck like strangers in a bathroom trying to score coke, like it's the only time you'll ever do it even though (by your count) you've done this eighty-four times now.

He lets out a little yelp and bucks against you, trying to take your cock deeper. He's good at that, really good, actually, and since the very first time, he always was. Even the first time you fucked him—the same day you met, actually—he was good at that. It wasn't his first time riding a dick back then, and for that, you were grateful. The last thing you wanted to do was ruin a virgin.

His other leg wraps around yours, pinning you in place behind him. You wouldn't complain except now it's harder to thrust into him since your weight is shifted forward. You shove him harder against the table and use that to push yourself back up. "Dirty fucking whore," you growl, enjoying broken cry that rises out of his throat and the way he blushes. Eridan Ampora doesn't want sweet words and he doesn't deserve them. He's a Class-A douchebag who, before the whole world went to hell, you wouldn't look twice at. His only redeeming factors are his skill with a rifle and his skill with a cock—both yours and his own (sometimes he decides he'd rather fuck you than be fucked by you, and you're perfectly fine with that, so long as you get off too). No, you're saving all your soft sweetness for Jake the next time you see him.

 _Jake._ Just thinking about him is enough to conjure up his goofy grin, his bright green eyes, his messy hair, and you let out an unconscious moan before you can stop yourself.

Eridan moans back, thinking it's for him. You screw your eyes shut, your motions mindless. Eridan's jerking himself off, practically sobbing in pleasure as you hit his prostate again and again.

 _If it gets him off, let him think what he wants_ , you decide. Eridan's hot, but you've thought about Jake while fucking him more than once.

"Oh, _fuck_ , 'm so close—!" Eridan whines. "Right there, babe, right there!"

"You like that, slut?" you murmur. "You like the way I fuck you?" You would have loathed Eridan Ampora's slimy guts if you'd met him in college. Right now, you just want to fuck him until he shuts up, fuck him until he leaves you.

"Yeah— _oh, my God_ , Sol—so good— _yes—_!" His back arches, his head tilts back, the motion of his hand on his dick becomes erratic, and he comes hard. He moans in time to the convulsions, which you can still feel since your cock is rammed deep in his ass, and when you close your eyes and pretend it's Jake, it's enough for you to finish, too. Shining green eyes dance through your vision and you rock into Eridan a little, riding out your orgasm, and he makes a sound of exhausted pleasure.

It's not until after you pull out of him and you both pull your pants back up that you realize he said _Sol_. _What—?_

Then you remember. _"Sollux, five-eleven, honey-blond hair, glasses."_

It seems you're not the only one who has to think about someone else.


End file.
